


The Duplicity in the Meanings of Flowers

by Anglofile



Series: Matchpoint [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock's Funeral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:05:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglofile/pseuds/Anglofile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh fuck that,” Greg shouted suddenly, slamming down his drink on the side table, “Mycroft, you are not infallible, however much you wish to be. And I’m not leaving you because of this unless you ask me to leave. You need someone as much as I do right now and fuck, I thought we’d started something really great. Just…let me in. Allow me to shoulder some of this for you. Please.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/gifts).



It didn’t rain the day they buried the broken body of Sherlock Holmes.

 

Greg always figured it was fitting for it to rain after someone died. But then again, who would be crying for the consulting detective?  The _fake,_ the  _fraud_ , the  _criminal._ The world cried fraud and they believed it with all their hearts. The newspapers had reported it as fact, after all. Personally Greg wanted to knock a couple journalists' heads together.

 

Greg had been suspended, of course; every case that Sherlock had even breathed on was being reviewed. He didn’t begrudge the Yard for doing it given how Sherlock had been dragged through the mud. But he also knew the cases were as tight as he could make them, Sherlock’s interference besides. He was a good cop, damn all of this. He’d be reinstated soon enough. Waiting for vindication was the best he could hope for.

 

The worst part though was that he’d doubted Sherlock too. John couldn’t even look at him when they’d met after the detective’s death. He'd tried to comfort John. God how he had tried but it was hard to comfort a comfortless man who wanted nothing to do with Greg. Then again, John was angry at the entire world in general at the moment. The man had lost his best friend, and Greg didn’t blame John for hating him at all, at least while it was all so fresh in everyone’s minds and hearts.  

 

Greg couldn’t fault John for laying part of the blame at his door. Later, when everything he could have done was far too late, Greg berated himself for that trickle of doubt that had formed in his mind. Of course Sherlock was genuine, he’d seen him do things time and time again that couldn’t have been faked. He’d seen _Mycroft_ do the same thing. They can’t both have been so flawlessly convincing.

 

But when he knew his job was on the line, Greg had doubted him. He had done the best he could, warning Sherlock of his impending arrest, trying to convince everyone their suspicions were incorrect…but he’d always wonder if he could have done more.

 

Now Sherlock was dead and there wasn’t a thing he could do. The funeral wasn’t a funeral at all, just a burial with a few quiet words said. It was a quiet sendoff with only a handful of the people Sherlock knew. It was probably for the best. Most of the people who would have gone to the funeral either hated themselves for their part in the man’s death or hated anyone else who would have shown up. It was hardly advertised in the papers and Greg suspected that was entirely Mycroft's doing. 

 

Mycroft was the lone figure at the grave when Greg finally approached him. They hadn’t seen each other for days, Mycroft barely sending so much as the information for when Sherlock was to be buried. When Greg came around to fully see Mycroft’s face he started a bit. Mycroft was sporting a rather large black eye.

 

“Christ, what happened to you?” Greg asked, frowning at the unsightly bruise, “Are you okay?”

 

“John did not take well to my apologies for my part in recent events,” Mycroft said softly, “He chose not to attend…this. I’m sure he’ll come to visit soon. I’ll be fine, Gregory.”

 

Greg sighed, exhaustion creeping up on him. “Is that what you’ve been telling anyone who asked, that you’ll be fine? Mycroft, why didn’t you call me? I had to bloody ask you when you were burying him…Christ, I could have been there for you.”

 

He paused, looking down at the freshly turned dirt, at the lone black rose laying on the grave, and then summoned up the bravery to ask the one thing he’d been terrified to ask since Sherlock died. “Do you…do you blame me?”

 

As the last words left his mouth, raindrops began to fall and Greg would have smiled sadly if he’d not been bracing for the impact of even more bad news. This was it. The end of something barely born. His stomach twisted into a knot. 

 

Mycroft gave out a short, scraping laugh. “Blame you?” he asked, eyes confused, “I suppose John did not tell you.”

 

Mycroft opened his umbrella and held it over them both.

 

“Tell me what?” Greg asked, frowning, “John’s not talking to anyone other than Mrs. Hudson right now.”

 

“The information that leaked to the press, I told Moriarty all of it,” Mycroft said softly, “What happened, happened because of me. I did not think you would want anything to do with me now.”

 

Greg closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. His heart clenched painfully for what Mycroft, his stoic masked Mycroft, had kept hidden the past few days.  He finally looked up at the man beside him and cocked his head towards Mycroft’s black car.

 

“I think we should talk about this back at yours. We’ll catch our…we’ll become very ill if we stay out in this.”

 

Mycroft nodded guardedly, as if he wasn’t certain them going anywhere together was a wise idea. For all Greg knew, the man expected to have another black eye to match the one he already had. Greg wished he had pushed more in the days since Mycroft had left his bed to just talk to Mycroft. But Mycroft had been a bloody closed book, always too busy to talk in light of recent events. Greg hoped it was only because he was busy and not consciously avoiding him, despite all Mycroft said that he didn't blame Greg. 

 

The ride to Mycroft’s house was silent (as the grave, Greg's mind unhelpfully supplied) and he let Mycroft gather himself in peace. It couldn’t have been easy to see the younger brother he’d worked so hard to keep alive all these years lowered into the ground like that. Harder still when it was clear Mycroft blamed himself for what happened. And he'd done it alone, when he bloody well didn't have to.

 

If this thing between them survived, Greg would have to take Mycroft to task for that. 

 

Soon enough they found themselves in Mycroft’s study with two glasses filled with scotch between them. Neither of them knew what to say to the other. Finding it all a bit unbearable, Greg finally gathered up his courage and decided to speak. Somebody had to, now more than ever. 

 

“I think not having a formal funeral was good,” Greg began, “It was probably for the best really.”

 

Mycroft stared into his drink. “Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted a funeral when the end result was either burial or cremation. It didn’t make sense to act as if he were going to a better place.”

 

Greg finally took a sip of the scotch and hissed a little at the burn of the alcohol as it slid down his throat.

 

“I don’t hate you, you know. I hate _myself_ more actually,” he began slowly, “I not only doubted him for one crucial fucking moment but I failed in what I promised to help you do. Keep him alive.”

 

“It wasn’t your fault. Moriarty skillfully manipulated us all in order to play to his tune,” Mycroft argued mournfully, “I should have seen a way out.”

 

“Oh fuck that,” Greg shouted suddenly, slamming down his drink on the side table, “Mycroft, you are not infallible, however much you wish to be. And I’m not leaving you because of this unless you ask me to leave. You need someone as much as I do right now and fuck, I thought we’d started something really great. Just…let me in. Allow me to shoulder some of this for you. Please.”

 

Mycroft looked at him again and Greg could see the pained vulnerability rising to the forefront of the man’s eyes. He knew Mycroft wasn’t one to easily ask for help unless he were desperate and it probably became even harder when he needed someone to comfort him. Instinctually, he pulled Mycroft to him, enveloping the other man in his embrace. 

 

“It’s fine,” Greg whispered against Mycroft’s hair, “We’ll make sure everyone knows he wasn’t a fraud, yeah?”

 

“Your job,” Mycroft murmured against his shoulder, “I’ll make sure you’re reinstated as quickly as possible. I promise you that you will not lose your job.”

 

“Not important at the moment, mate,” Greg said softly, “Let’s just take this time together and mourn. You don’t have to pretend you’re fine to me. Cry if you need to. I know you wouldn’t have dared let anyone see you cry before.”

 

With a sniffle, Mycroft turned and curled into Greg. Now and again Greg would feel silent tears drip upon his dress shirt for the brother Mycroft had failed to keep safe.

 

Greg held the man until it grew dark, taking as much comfort from the embrace as he gave.

 

“Come on, I’ll put you to bed,” Greg said soothingly, “You’ve had a hard day.”

 

“I’m not a child,” Mycroft murmured, “I can take myself to bed."

 

He’d be willing to bet that Mycroft hadn’t slept much since the night they’d spent together if he’d slept at all. It was clear the man needed someone to take care of him just now, someone who understood how important it was that Mycroft present an emotionless mask to the world just now.

 

Greg stood and faced the man still sitting on the sofa.

 

“Right. Should I leave then?” Greg asked, his voice betraying none of what he wanted in the matter. If Mycroft truly wanted him gone, he’d have to say so.

 

“Do you want to?” Mycroft replied.

 

“No. I want to go up to your bedroom and cuddle together until we both fall asleep. No agenda, just two men taking comfort in each other. Whatever happens after, and I really hope that it's our staying together, is up to you,” Greg said plainly, “What do you say? We’re all each other’s got right now, Mycroft.”

 

Mycroft looked conflicted, as if he thought there might be a catch. Then he sighed, decision made, and stood up, putting his hand in Greg’s and letting Greg lead the way upstairs.

 

For now, it was enough.

 

For now. 


	2. Lavender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look," he finally replied, "it’s lovely that I’ve decided to create an imaginary pain in the arse, but I’m not in the mood for dealing with this.”

It was far too early in the morning. He’d been up far too long due to a very difficult case. His head was throbbing and he just wanted his warm bed and a warm Mycroft to sleep with.

 

He’d not slept in nearly 24 hours.

 

That probably explained the hallucination.

 

Greg blinked and rubbed at his eyes. Shit, he really didn’t need this.

 

It had been a year since Sherlock had died; the anniversary had just passed two days ago. John had finally gotten to the point where he was picking up the pieces of his life and they'd spent the day together, getting absolutely pissed. They'd reminisced a little and had come to the conclusion that while Sherlock had been an arrogant bastard, the git had left a really large hole in both their lives. 

 

So really, it made sense that if Greg had to have a hallucination just now, it would be Sherlock Holmes. It was a very vivid hallucination, Greg had to give his mind some credit. The spectre was wearing the coat and the scarf. The hair was a bit shorter than Greg remembered though, but it even came complete with that thing Sherlock did when he was thinking, the prayer hands at his lips.

 

Oh and there it was, the twist of the lips and the eyebrow rising on the ghost's forehead. Greg definitely needed some sleep.

 

“You’re not imagining me, Lestrade.

 

Greg just stared at him.

 

“Look," he finally replied, "it’s lovely that I’ve decided to create an imaginary pain in the arse, but I’m not in the mood for dealing with this.”

 

The other man’s eyes narrowed. It was clear that Sherlock saw Greg's slumped shoulders, his red, bloodshot eyes and the self-critical disappointment Greg felt when more people died when they didn’t have to.

 

“Someone else died before you could capture the killer. You must have missed me most of all given how low your solve rates have gotten." 

 

Greg closed his eyes and counted to three.

 

_One, you can't kill a ghost, Greg._

_Two, even if you really, really want to try._

_Three._

 

“You’re not real. You only know that because I know that.”

 

He opened his eyes again, hoping that the chair would be empty.

 

Sherlock was still there. Greg sighed.

 

The man wouldn't shift his arse just because Greg wanted him to when he was alive. Why did Greg think death would change that?

 

Unless...

 

Greg decided to conduct an experiment.

 

He walked closer to the ghost in the leather chair and poked him.

 

His finger pressed into an actual, warm body. Suddenly it became a whole lot more real. It was alive.  _Sherlock was alive_ , Greg's mind supplied. Actually here and bloody breathing. 

 

“Jesus Christ." 

 

Sherlock's eyes lit up with glee. "Not quite."

 

Rage bubbled up inside of him suddenly, and without warning his vision had descended into a tunnel of righteous fury. The fucking prick had been alive the whole time. He grabbed Sherlock by the scarf and pushed the lanky bastard up against the nearest wall. He practically shook the man with his fury.

 

“How fucking dare you? Do you know how much John has grieved for you? The bloody GUILT your brother had to go through?”

 

For a brief second, Greg swore he saw remorse and pain flit across the man’s face. It was immediately replaced by a mask of superiority that uncannily reminded him of Mycroft.

 

“My brother?” Sherlock scoffed, “He didn’t-“

 

Greg pressed him harder against the wall. “Don’t. I saw him after your funeral. Don’t you _dare_ belittle how he felt about you. I swear to God, Sherlock, if you only saw-“

 

“Gregory.”

 

Mycroft's voice was easily recognizable. It was calm with just a hint of desperation;Greg heard it and he just knew.

 

Mycroft never thought Sherlock had been dead for one moment. _Suicide of Fake Genius_ , the papers all said. The crying, the grieving, the taking comfort in each other, all that Greg thought he was doing to help the man he was dating get through his brother's death…it was all an act. Fake. 

 

As fake as the suicide of Sherlock Holmes.

 

Slowly he released Sherlock, letting the man breathe again. He only felt guilty about nearly choking him for a second. 

 

“Get out,” Greg said in a fit of calm fury, “Go somewhere and start figuring out how in the hell you’re _ever_ going to make John forgive you because I sure as hell don’t know if I will.”

 

No one moved at first.

 

Sherlock quickly glanced at Mycroft. A quick but silent conversation followed that gave all the appearances that the brothers could communicate telepathically. Greg wasn’t entirely certain that they _weren’t_. As of right now, he’d not put anything past the Holmes brother, if he ever really had. 

 

Having decided something between them, Sherlock left, his footsteps echoing in the hall. Greg continued to stare at the wall where he’d pushed the younger man earlier and tried to control his anger. He couldn’t look at Mycroft just yet. He was honestly afraid of what would happen if he did.

 

Greg heard the door slam shut.

 

He finally turned to where Mycroft was standing in the doorway. The man’s face was a blank mask, his posture ramrod straight. He looked as if he was made of ice, just like everyone had said. Maybe Greg had been wrong about it all. Maybe everything had been an act, including the relationship Greg thought they had.

 

“You cried in my arms,” Greg stated, voice flat and words clipped, “You grieved in front of me and I comforted you. Hell, I grieved for him, blamed myself, and you let me! None of it was real, was it?”

 

“Of course it was real,” Mycroft said stoically, “My brother was legally dead to the rest of the world and there wasn’t a guarantee that he’d survive his ‘death.'  It was not a great leap of imagination to act as if he were actually dead due to my own failings.”

 

Greg shook his head. “You could have trusted me. We were together, Mycroft,” he argued, “I thought you trusted me. Why did you have to fool me?”

 

“Were together,” Mycroft repeated, lips twisted into a sardonic smile, “It was not prudent to tell more people than we had to. We had to make it believable and let’s face it, Baskerville proved that you cannot act to save your life."

 

Mycroft’s chin rose as he looked down his nose at Greg. Greg wanted to throw something. He hated it when Mycroft did that, hated feeling as if he were lesser. Every once in awhile he'd feel like Mycroft was slumming, both in class and intellect. 

 

He hated feeling stupid. 

 

“Moriarty killed himself," Greg shouted, "Why the _fuck_ was this necessary?”

 

The rage had finally bubbled over the calm lid he’d put upon it. He was boiling with it, wanting to throw things and rage about it until the anger finally worked itself out of his system. 

 

Greg paced towards where Mycroft stood. “Sure Sherlock wouldn’t have been allowed in on cases while they reviewed everything but why put any of us through that? Or are you both just so absorbed with playing your goddamned mind games that you couldn’t give a shit any of the rest of us mere mortals felt?”

 

He’d made his way into Mycroft’s personal space, pushing himself up so that their faces were just as close as if they were about to kiss. Greg's teeth were clenched and his face broadcasted the hurt and anger he was currently feeling so obviously that there could be no mistake how he felt. It was a mockery of the physical intimacy they’d reached in the past year.

 

“Because,” Mycroft said slowly, the cold mask he rarely wore around Greg anymore firmly in place, “Do you think I would honestly do this just because I could? How very little you appear to know me.”

 

Greg stepped back as if he’d been struck. “I can’t do this.”

 

He rushed past the other man to grab his coat. He had to leave. He had to get away from everything: Sherlock, his bloody brother, the feelings of betrayal and love and hurt and anger. His blood pounded with the demand that he find somewhere else, away from it all.

 

“Are you leaving?” Mycroft asked softly.

 

He’d followed Greg out into the hall and stood next to him, wearing only the dressing gown he’d put on when he heard Greg come home.

 

“I’m going out,” Greg said brusquely, “Right now I don’t give a fuck where or how long and I certainly don’t care if you know or not. I’m sure one of your assistants can find me if you’re really curious.”

 

“That’s not what I asked.”

 

Greg laughed harshly. “That’s the answer you’re going to get.”

 

With that, Greg slammed the door behind him. He needed some air and he needed to be alone. He’d check into a cheap hotel and turn his phone off. There was no way he was equipped to figure out how he felt about it all without some sleep.

 

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do after he woke up.

 

And until he figured it out, talking to anyone, talking to _Mycroft_ , wouldn’t be a good idea. 


	3. Marigolds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe he’d even feed the ducks. Ducks wouldn’t lie to him or fake their deaths. Ducks just wanted fed.
> 
>  
> 
> It was possible, Greg considered quietly, that he was going a bit mad. But little pricks coming back from the dead could do that.

Greg woke up reluctantly. He didn't want to be conscious. He really didn't. 

 

It was no use pretending. He was awake. He opened his eyes to see the very basic hotel room that he’d checked into a few hours earlier. 

 

Greg actively tried to not think about it but the events of the night before began playing in Greg’s mind like a bloody film. Getting home, sleep deprived, only to find his partner’s little brother had come back from the dead. It was a crap film really. 

 

It would just make it all easier if he could search for any relationship advice to see if someone had gone through a similar situation. Greg snorted. He somehow doubted that any of the agony aunts both online and off had gotten _anything_ similar to what he was going through.

 

Still refusing to get up, Greg stared at the mottled ceiling for quite awhile in hopes that the answer to his problems would present itself.

 

The blotch on the right looked like Elvis.

 

God, what the hell was he going to do?

 

Elvis didn’t say a word, choosing to remain silent on the subject of partner’s little brothers being alive when they were supposed to be dead.

 

Fucking Elvis. No use at all he was.

 

Greg looked over to the other side of the double bed. He’d only moved into Mycroft’s house at the six month mark of their relationship so it really shouldn’t feel wrong but not having someone sleeping next to him felt horrible. Greg always was one for being part of a pair.

 

He might have to get used to being single again. After all, he’d been lied to, and he hated being lied to.

 

Sherlock had been alive the whole time. No wonder there wasn’t a funeral and the casket was closed. It was sod all about the press coverage and all about no one questioning if the body was really Sherlock. And didn’t Mycroft lay it on thick, being the only one at the graveside, dropping the black rose, and appearing all _grief-stricken._

 

The worst part though was the memory of _helping_ Mycroft grieve, lot of good that did, and thinking it was actually genuine. Christ, the man had fucking cried in his arms the day his brother was ‘buried.’ It felt like a betrayal. It felt eerily similar to how he felt when he’d finally accepted his wife was cheating on him.

 

Greg had thought he’d had enough of being lied to with his ex-wife. He could certainly pick them, couldn’t he? No matter where he turned, he was being used.

 

Greg finally sat up and turned towards the bedside table. He figured it was time to have contact with the outside world, even if it was his day off.  

 

He turned his mobile on and the thing almost immediately beeped.

 

**_2 New Texts_ **

 

_If you need any personal items, let Anthea know. They’ll be brought to you. MH_

_Of course, you can return at any time. It is still, at this moment in time at least, your home as well. MH_

 

Greg tipped his head back until it hit the wall. The idiot already assumed Greg was going to move out. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to expect any pleading on Mycroft’s part for Greg to stay, but this outright assumption...it left Greg feeling a little bit cold and feeling a lot more sympathetic towards the man than he really wanted to feel right now.

 

 _Was_ he going to stay? Greg frowned. He wasn’t sure whether he could believe _anything_ Mycroft said at this point. Before last night, Greg would have said he was fluent in Mycroft-speak but now, what if Mycroft let him see what he wanted to see? Anything Greg thought he knew about the man he…the man he cared about could have been a sham, a way to make Greg ignore any niggling doubts about Sherlock’s death.

 

Right. This was getting him nowhere.

 

The first thing he needed to do was to get out of the ruddy hotel room he’d checked into the night before. He’d find another room somewhere else if he really decided he needed it. He  _did_ have a home, for the time being at least. 

 

The day was cool but sunny so Greg decided he’d sit in a nearby park for awhile. He found a bench that kept him a bit isolated from the crowd, just in front of a picturesque lake. A bloke could think in a place like this. 

 

Maybe he’d even feed the ducks. Ducks wouldn’t lie to him or fake their deaths. Ducks just wanted fed.

 

It was possible, Greg considered quietly, that he was going a bit mad. But little pricks coming back from the dead could do that.

 

He wondered if Sherlock had revealed himself to John yet. He wondered if John had punched Sherlock yet. He wondered if John was feeling even more betrayed than Greg was.

 

He was wondering a lot of things actually.

 

It was hard watching everything you thought you knew unravel yet again with barely a year between the two events. His career and his heart had taken a battering. He did care for Mycroft, or at least he thought he did. Now he wasn’t even sure of how long the deception had been. It had all occurred very quickly after their first time together after all.

 

Greg thought about their first time together, after the Arsenal game in his poor excuse for a flat. It had been too raw, too real. Surely Mycroft wasn’t faking. The passion he'd felt seemed real. 

 

Maybe he just wanted it to be. Greg’s heart desperately wanted it to all be very real. The past year had been, while not perfect given he’d thought they were all going through the grieving process, was better than he thought he was going to get after his divorce. He had envisioned being alone and he hadn't been. He'd had Mycroft. 

 

Mycroft had been sweet and emotionally open to him. He'd opened up to Greg and Greg only, like a flower that only bloomed in the darkest of night. Greg had been able to see parts of the man that he could bet Mycroft hadn’t shown anyone before.

 

He was willing to bet no one had ever seen the sketchbooks Mycroft kept in his private study for one thing. There was a book practically full of portraits of Greg in various moods and poses, both in clothes and out. That was something that Mycroft had only tentatively shown him and almost by accident when Greg had come into the room while he was sketching. Surely that meant something. He'd been let into the inner circle. 

 

And Greg had trusted Mycroft. The man surely knew the trust issues left over from his divorce. What he needed to do was to decide whether he could still trust the man first and foremost, despite everything that had been revealed the night before.

 

Greg knew going into this that Mycroft couldn’t tell him everything. Of course he did. Sure, it felt like a betrayal and maybe it was a little, but maybe it was necessary. Mycroft was right; Greg was a terrible actor. And it’s hard to make someone dead without some people left behind to show that they genuinely believed that someone was no longer alive.

 

And there it was. As Mycroft had said, he took his inspiration for acting from the idea that his brother had truly died. Greg knew from their first meeting that it was a constant fear in Mycroft’s mind. It couldn’t have been hard to imagine it all being very real.

 

Mycroft would do anything for his brother. Greg couldn’t begrudge him that.

 

The more he thought of it, Greg would have done the same if he’d been in Mycroft’s place. He’d have done anything to make sure the end result was Sherlock being alive, even more so now that he’d seen Mycroft’s semi-fake grief.

 

There was more to all of this.

 

Greg knew he needed to know the full story, whether Mycroft wanted to or not. He damned well deserved hearing why he’d been lied to for an entire year.

 

Only then would he sit down, stare into Mycroft’s eyes, and make a decision.  

 

Greg brushed off the breadcrumbs on his lap and stood up, eyes still on the lake in front him.

 

It was time to go home. 


	4. Honeysuckle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I thought you might like to read this book. It should prove illuminating.

Greg arrived home to silence.

 

So that was how it would be. Retreat and wait for Greg to come to him. He felt his heart tug a little even as he rolled his eyes. The man was obviously convinced this was the end, whether Greg had decided it or not.

 

There was a letter on top of a book on the hallway table where Greg habitually placed his keys when he came in. It was sealed, of course, just like the first letter Mycroft had sent him. It all seemed like it was ages ago. Decades even.

 

Greg broke the seal and pulled out the letter.

 

_Gregory,_

_You wanted time to think things out and I will give you that. I’ve moved into the guest bedroom so that you may have our bedroom for the time being. I’d rather you not leave until you decide to do so. Regardless, I feel no need to be of any further inconvenience for you and I will stay out of your way as much as is physically possible._

_I am telling you the truth that there was no way that you could have known that he was alive. It had to be a completely believable, and to do that, we required the people important in his life to think he was dead. I could safely be brought into the ruse as we had previously established a long division between himself and I that you know there is some truth to. Our mutual resentments have often worked in our favour._

_Just know that what I did by keeping this from you, I did out of love and fear for you, my love for my brother, and his love for his friends._

_I would do anything to keep you safe if I could, and if that meant I had to lie to you for a year about my brother’s death...it was a price I was willing to pay, even if it meant that I could only have you for a comparatively short time._

_Yours,_

_Mycroft_

_P.S. I thought you might like to read this book. It should prove illuminating._

Greg shook his head. Mycroft…there were times he wanted to clock some sense into the man. Life with Mycroft was never, ever going to be normal. Sometimes he kind of felt as if he’d agreed to something without reading the terms and conditions and the result was being saddled with the Holmes brothers.

 

The book. Right.

 

Greg picked it up from the sidetable.

 

_Flowers and Their Meanings_

He flipped to the section on roses, which was helpfully marked by a bookmark of pressed yellow rose petals with red tips. Greg briefly wondered if Mycroft had been mad enough to steal some from the apology arrangement he’d sent to Greg's office eary in their friendship.

 

It was entirely possible. Mycroft’s deepest secret was that he was a sentimental man.

 

Apparently there were dozens upon dozens of varieties of roses, most of which Greg couldn't tell the difference between. At the very end of the chapter, there was a list of meanings for each colour:

 

_Yellow with red tips: friendship, falling in love._

 

**Falling in love.**

 

Greg leaned with his back to the bookshelves and closed his eyes.

 

_It has always amused me the wildly different meanings you can take from just one flower. The duplicity of the language is quite interesting, don’t you think?_

 

The ruddy bastard.

 

He’d been falling in love with Greg far before everything went to hell and back.

 

Illuminating, indeed.

 

It was oddly romantic, in a very Holmesian way, to be told your partner loves you via a book and the memory of a long since delivered flower arrangement. 

 

He needed to find Mycroft.

 

Greg bounded up the stairs and paused for a moment. The problem with getting into a relationship with Mycroft Holmes, beyond all the obvious Holmesian problems, presented themselves two-fold:

 

_One, Mycroft Holmes, when he wished to make himself scarce, could do so very easily._

_Two, he was aided by his bloody monstrosity of a house._

 

Right. Think like Mycroft, Greg. 

 

Mycroft is convinced Greg is going to leave him but he still admitted he loved Greg...He wants to make sure he stays out of the way while also remaining in the house. What does that tell a lowly DI whose previous residence was a tiny, grotty flat?

 

Greg’s eyes narrowed.

 

There was an adjoining bedroom to theirs, a relic of couples having separate rooms. 

 

Mycroft was also nosy as hell.

 

Greg suddenly grinned. Got him.

 

He wasted no time in opening the door to the bedroom next to theirs with only a perfunctory knock on the door.

 

Mycroft was in bed reading a book. The blue silk pajamas he never wore in bed, primarily because Greg almost almost took him out of them before too long, made the man look beautiful even as Greg noticed the signs that Mycroft hadn’t slept much in the past day. His hair wasn't perfect, the eyes were tired, and he had a general exhausted air about him that he never showed outside of the house. He hadn't slept at all. 

 

Greg heart clenched a little. Having his brother come back from the death, however much anticipated, and having his partner run off, possibly permanently, would wear even the strongest person out.

 

They stared at each other for a long moment. He held up the book.

 

“Still wanting to send me those yellow roses with red tips?” Greg asked, slowly making sure each word was clear as to their intent.

 

Mycroft didn’t move. Greg saw that he’d been given the power in this conversation. Mycroft was ceding control.

 

And if that wasn’t an indication of how much Mycroft truly trusted him, Greg didn’t know what was.

 

A few seconds passed by, marked only by the beating of their hearts and their eyes locked with the other's gaze. 

 

“Eleven red roses actually,” Mycroft replied quietly. 

 

Greg blinked, opened his mouth to say something and then shut it again. Mycroft just took a deep breath and waited.

 

“Right.” Greg said finally. “I have no bloody idea what that means.”

 

He flipped open the book once again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the reluctant smile that graced Mycroft’s lips.

 

_Red Roses: I love you._

 

_11 Roses: Assurance that you are truly and deeply loved._

 

“You saw what I was capable of when I needed to protect my brother,” Mycroft stated very calmly, “Now, ask yourself, what more do you think I would do to protect _YOU_?”

 

Their eyes met once again. Greg snapped the book shut.

 

“You are such a colossal idiot,” Greg said, shaking his head, “I was never going to leave you.”

 

“You left,” Mycroft pointed out, “And you were justifiably angry. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you packed up and left permanently.”

 

Greg rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’ve made that very clear. Look, I’m going to want a full explanation of what happened, when it happened, and why it happened. But…I think I understand why. And you made your point with the flowers. You were falling in love way before it all happened. It’ll take me awhile but I will trust you as much as I did before. Just...give me time.”

 

Greg walked over to the bed and cupped one of Mycroft’s cheeks.

 

“Just promise me that you’ll never lie to me about your brother’s fake suicide again.”

 

He laughed.

 

“Christ, put that under things I never thought I’d say. What about it though?”

 

Mycroft finally, finally began to unbend and smile.

 

“I rather think it loses its effectiveness if we do it more than once. Rather like the boy who cried wolf, don’t you think?”

 

Greg pressed his forehead to his partner’s.

 

“Good. I know there are things you can’t tell me but I don’t want to have to go through that again.”

 

Mycroft nodded quickly.

 

“I wouldn't want to put you through anything like that again. Not if I can help it.”

 

Greg nodded. He wasn't an idiot; he could clearly hear the caveat in Mycroft's words even if he didn't know the man as well as he did. Even Mycroft couldn’t predict the future and what he did promise meant a lot. If Mycroft could reasonably avoid lying to him, he would. That was enough for now. 

 

The urge to kiss Mycroft grew so much and so quickly that he couldn’t help but lean forward to kiss the man. The idea that he would ever leave this crazy, magnificent man seemed even more utterly ridiculous than it had before. 

 

Greg loved him and it was as simple as that.

 

He might be angry. He might be furious about being lied to but he understood why.

 

Mycroft was still guarded, as if he expected a blow to come from behind. He'd been so sure that Greg would leave. Greg could see the walls between them in the man’s eyes, walls Greg had thought he'd destroyed months ago. It was time he made sure those walls were gone for good. 

 

“How about we move this back into _our_ bedroom, huh?” Greg asked softly, “Think we’ll be much more comfortable there…once we remove what you’re wearing, of course.”

 

Greg smiled cheekily, trying to show Mycroft that it really was okay, and Mycroft’s eyes began to light up again. The man in the bed wet his lips before they spread into a very soft and tentative smile. Greg could see the walls tumbling down.

 

“You told me once that make up sex after you think a relationship was going to end was the best part of the argument," Mycroft noted. 

 

Greg winked. 

  

“And I plan on proving that to you," Greg replied, holding his hand out, "What do you say?"

 

Mycroft placed his hand in Greg's without a word. 


End file.
